


The Mark of Aphrodite

by lumosinlove



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Greek Mythology - Freeform, HP - Freeform, Harry Potter - Freeform, Harry Potter AU, Harry Potter Fic, M/M, Remus x Sirius, Trojan War AU, Wolfstar AU, am i gonna make people sad? probably, sirius x remus, will I make it better? we will see, wolfstar, wolfstar angst, wolfstar fic, wolfstar fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-02 05:55:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14538126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosinlove/pseuds/lumosinlove
Summary: Troy and Greece are at war over Helen of Sparta’s beauty and Paris’ thievery. Remus, a Greek medic, and Sirius, a Trojan general, will fight for much more than another man’s pride.





	1. Chapter 1

_The Greek Camp_

Remus only ended up in battle because the Greeks needed reinforcements. He should have been in the medicine tents, where he belonged, not strapping on metal that didn’t fit him. He was thin, with half the amount of muscle as most of the other men, but he was healthy and of age, and so he was called. Peter too, a boy a few years younger, sixteen maybe, was summoned to the battle that would start with sunrise the next day. He had been called second after Remus, and Remus had had to look away as Peter shied away from the order, a dishonorable cringe working through his round limbs. Remus had kept his head high, eyes ahead, and his trembling hands behind his back. His hands didn’t shake when tending to the wounded, but he had a feeling they might around a sword.

The Trojan nights were hot, but the coastal breeze that flowed up to the camps from the beach was cool and Remus had taken to sleeping just outside the medicine tents. The stench of blood and death was too thick sometimes to fall into Hypnos’ clutches, but that wasn’t why he wasn’t sleeping tonight. Tonight, he would watch the sunrise, and know that what came with it was a day that brought him death. He wasn’t a fighter, he had never trained, and the Trojans were merciless. He didn’t expect to survive, but couldn’t find it in him to run. He’d look like a coward.

His sleeping mat slide a little underneath him as Peter sat down heavily.

“I wonder if they care.” He said, “If they care that we know we’re going to die.”

Remus glanced his way, at his cropped blonde hair and sweaty face. Peter dealt with the heat worse than most.

“Probably not.” Remus picked up a piece of bread he had nicked from one of the food tents, tearing it in half and handing the bigger piece to Peter, “Or maybe they’re more optimistic than we are.”

“We’ve got Achilles, what do they need us for?”

Remus shook his head, chewing slowly, “Achilles won’t fight, remember? Because of the girl.”

“Oh.” Peter sighed, deep and regretful, “Oh, right.” They chewed in silence for a moment before Peter nudge him, “Do you think it’s true?”

“Do I think what’s true?” Remus was tearing small pieces off his bread, trying to make it last.

Peter sounded slightly excited now at the prospect of gossip, “About Achilles and his man, Patroclus. There are some men in the camp that say they’re lovers.”

Remus pinched his bread, molding it into a small ball between his fingers, focusing carefully on it, “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean—I think I see it. Not that I’ve gotten close enough to see it. But I think that… I don’t know.”

Remus looked out towards the horizon, heart jumping a little at the fact that it was starting to lighten, “Say what you mean, Pete.”

“I just think that…” Peter was quiet for a few moments, then, in a softer voice, “I think it would be nice, I guess. To have someone here. Someone who chose you. Who wasn’t taken and afraid.”

Remus looked over at him, at the way he was sitting with his head down, fumbling with his bread instead of eating it. He seemed to feel Remus’ gaze and continued.

“I’m not saying I don’t like all the girls, I do. I’m just saying maybe he’s lucky.”

Remus looked towards the beach again, towards Achilles’ tent and ships a little in the distance. There was a lamp lit inside and he could see two shadows sitting together, close and quiet. He thought of Achilles. The man was a bit of a mystery. A bit of a hot-head. But Peter was right. He had companionship. He had freedom, the freedom to choose his battles.

“Yeah.” Remus looked away and tossed Peter the last of his bread, suddenly not hungry, “Maybe he is.”

They sat quietly after that, watching dawn come.

~

_Troy_

Sirius wasn’t sure how he had ended up next to Helen. He hadn’t wanted to be next to Helen, and he was pretty sure—by the number of male narrowed eyes set on him—they were others who would willingly take his place. He had nothing against Helen, but Paris’ constant showers of affection over her were less than apatite-inducing. It did, however, give him time to inspect the beauty she was so known for. He’d been watching all dinner, blending in perfectly with the rest of the male company—an unusual feat.

He didn’t get it.

He’d never voice this opinion, obviously, but he just didn’t quite see what was different. Certainly not what was worth all this blood or the hundreds of Greek lords camped outside, dealing with the beach’s sand grains in every nook and corner of their beings. She certainly wasn’t worth all the sand.

She was beautiful, but not in any way that Sirius cared about. Her neck was lean and swanlike, her eyes were dark, as was her hair. Her skin was milky and her voice soft. She was everything a women was suppose to be.

Sirius’ eyes drifted from her, and onto Paris.

Now, Paris. Sirius thought he might withstand sand and blood for him.

He laid with Paris once, just once, before all of this. It was a around two years ago and he’d been young, maybe sixteen, still in training with the army. Paris was known for his broad tastes and extravagances and Sirius, being as he was, had been keen to play this known fact to his advantages.

He fought with sweat and sword to catch Paris’ eye, and it had worked much quicker than he had thought it would. He’d been in the middle of dinner with James and some other of Troy’s most promising, when a servant had come to collect him quietly.

Paris’ chambers had been ornate, like a woman’s, and his sheets and skin soft.

“You have the eyes of Athena.” Paris had said to him, stroking the skin beneath his gray irises, “The skills of a god.” Paris’ smile had been quiet but sharp, “Is that why you look like one too?”

The night had been long and hot, and Sirius had thought—maybe—

But he was woken early, before the sun, and ushered out. Paris had not even stirred, remained with his back towards him, sleeping on. He never looked Sirius’ way again.

So, why, Sirius asked himself. Why would he burn a city for him still?

Sirius took a drink of wine, holding the sweet liquid on his tongue.

He’d change it if he could.

“The Greeks,” Hector, whose command he was under, broke into his thoughts, “sleep just outside our walls. If we do not push back soon, they will think us weakened.” His voice was deep, and powerful. Sirius thought that was much nicer than Helen too, “They will see it as an opening for attack. I say we act before they have a chance to consider any option.” He looked around the room, finding Sirius and nodding at him, “I ask for my troops support in quick action. Sirius, son of Black, as general Albus was slain at the last battle, you are next in line for command.” He stared down the rest of the room, “I vouch for this soldier. He is brave, and fierce, and I hope none of you question this, despite his youth."

“You have my support, Prince Hector.” Sirius spoke up, raising his glass to his lips slowly, letting the eyes of the room linger on him. He knew that Hector was not simply giving him this position. A silent exchange had just taken place. Sirius’ support, for Hector’s authorization of an increase in rank.

“Tomorrow, then. Dawn.” Sirius raised his class, Hector following, a slight smile on his face, and the room following him. Sirius smiled back, “What is quicker than that?”

~

_The Greek Camp_

The leather and bronze of the armor made it hotter, and sweat dripped down along Remus’ neck and throat. Everything felt heavy and cumbersome. He tried to stand tall, in fact he rose just as high or higher than most of the other men, but his bronze breast plate felt like it mirrored Atlas, with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He was walking, or more stumbling, to his death.

Agamemnon stood at the front of the troops, raised high in his glinting chariot, armor polished to perfection unlike the dented, dead man’s metal Remus had had thrust into his arms just an hour earlier. Agamemnon was speaking, shouting, rallying his men. Spears hammered the earth around him, calls of battle rang through the troops, and Remus heard none of it. He thought briefly of Peter, whom he had lost in the crowd, and sent a silent prayer up to Athena, or maybe Aphrodite, to keep him alive through this day. He thought about sending one for himself, but thought he might save it, thought maybe there might be a time when he needed it more.

“Greeks!” Agamemnon’s voice roared, spear and sword raised in each fist, “Fight with me for the spoils you deserve!” The crowd roared back, “For the Trojan blood’s sweet stench as it hits the earth!” Spears hammered the ground, “For the beauty of Helen of Sparta!”

Agamemnon’s weapons came down in a cross over his body, clanging the sides of his chariot and sending his horses into frantic action, galloping forward. And suddenly Remus was running too, it was either that or be trampled. He couldn’t breathe right, cornered by men driven mad by Ares, by lust for blood and beauty and gold—the three things promised to the victors of war. For a few moments, it was just breath, and cries, and dust.

And then Remus heard the first strike of metal on metal. He wasn’t sure where the Trojans had come from, but suddenly the ranks had broken as unfamiliar faces delivered chaos that battle promised. Horses wined and pawed the earth while their masters yanked the reigns and slashed at flesh. The air was gritty with sand and dust, and Remus coughed, fingers white around his heavy sword. He turned desperately, desperate to move for fear of being cut down, but bodies were pressed against him too closely. He found himself shoulder to shoulder with a boy about his age, but he had his sword rage with determination, muscles flexing and jaw set.  
Remus, feeling completely alone in his fear, was unable to help the question from slipping out. He grabbed the boy’s arm, “How—“ they were jostled but Remus kept his grip tight, “how do we get out?”

The boy looked alarmed, annoyed, and opened his mouth to answer. What came instead was a spray of red, directly across Remus’ face. The boy choked, eyes so wide Remus could see his own expression of horror in them, and then he fell sideways, obscured and trampled almost as fast as he had died.

A laugh rang out above him and Remus’ head whipped up. A white mare, coat wet with enemies blood, held a dark haired Trojan. His grin was wicked, his tan skin speckled with red, his sword was wet to the hilt, and his eyes were fixed on Remus. They were grey and light with adrenaline. His sword raised, and only then did Remus find his prayer.

_Aphrodite. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die, please—_

Remus felt frozen, the sword was no longer raising, but lowering.

_Aphrodite, I call to you, I call to you, I don’t want to die, I don’t—_

The Trojan struck, Remus felt the blow of the sword, the metal against the skin of his neck. He gasped for breath, expecting there to be none, and choked when he got a lungful of dust and air.

The sword, and all its force, had added no new blood to its gore. It had simply glanced off Remus’ skin.

The boy on horseback blinked, thrown off balance by the rogue sword, and for a moment the battle dimmed.

“Not possible.” Remus heard the boy say, so softly that he shouldn’t have been able to hear it.

Then the boy’s eyes widened. _A god_ , were the words his lips shaped.

“No.” Remus said softly, hand flying to his throat where the blade had ricocheted, “I’m not.”

“You—“

The boy’s expression changed, and it took Remus a moment to see why. His hand went to his side, clutching at where a sword had sliced through the leather ties of his armor and into his skin. Remus, without thinking, stepped out and caught him as he slid from his horse. He was heavier than Remus expected and he stumbled a little under his weight until the boy’s feet were on the ground and he was slumped into Remus’ chest. It was an odd sort of embrace, but in the context, it looked like one was stabbing the other.

Remus felt breath against his neck, “I don’t want to die.”

The words surprised him, out of place among the men charging at each other around them, screaming for one another’s blood.

The breath again, fainter, “I don’t want to die. Aphrodite…”

The boy slumped against him fully, and Remus stood, frozen, in the middle of a scene of death.

He looked around, his helmet obstructing much of his view, and again, asked the forbidden question of any soldier: _How do we get out?_

Because he is not a soldier. He is a healer.

And he shouldered the boy’s weight, wrapping his limp arm around his own neck, and started to push through the swords and shouts.

~

Remus found a grove, shaded from view and distant from the fighting, that rested where the beach’s sand was just starting to turn to Troy’s green grasses. Remus ducked under branches that slid along his helmet and swayed in the breeze. The boy’s feet dragged along the ground, and Remus did his best to set him down gently against one of the larger olive trees of the rather dense cluster they were in. He tore his helmet off, gasping for breath, and then knelt, pulling the boy’s helmet free too. It was gold and shining, with a large plume along the crest. So, he had status. A general, most likely. Remus frowned at the piece of armor, then at the boy’s face. He looked young, very young, for a position of that rank. But, then again, maybe they did things differently in Troy.

The Trojan groaned, coughing weakly, head rolling to the side. Sweat lined his forehead and cheeks making stray strands of hair stick to is olive skin. Remus stared for a moment at the sort of rough beauty of him. He was a warrior for sure, and had the graceful strength about him in the fine muscles in his hands and, as Remus saw when he unlaced his armor and shirt beneath, his chest. The cut was deep, but the blood had began to slow on its own. Remus took hold of the bottom of the boy’s tunic and tore, the fine fabric ripping neatly.

“Stop.”

Remus started, breath catching as his eyes was forced forward by the tip of a sword—his own sword—being pressed against his throat.

The boy had his cool, gray eyes fixed on him, steady, but hooded with blood loss, “Greek.” He said the word, not with the contempt that Remus expected, but with a sort of fascination. He looked to where Remus had torn his shirt, “That’s expensive.” His tongue had switched from his own to Greek. So, Remus had been right. High born.

Remus’ hands tightened around the fabric, “Kill me and we’ll both die here.”

The boy nodded at the cloth, “Then continue.” He did not lower the sword.

Remus narrowed his eyes, “I am helping you at my own risk. Do not expect me to do it beneath your sword.”

The boy smirked, “It’s your sword.”

Remus blinked, taken aback by the smile, by the humor, and even more so by the sound of the sword hitting the earth. The boy leant back against the tree. “You’re not a fighter anyway.”

Remus sat a little straighter at that, a hard task when one was kneeling and leaning over a wound, “What makes you say that?”

“Well, you armor’s practically hanging off of you, firstly. And look at you,” Remus glanced up at the tone. The boy raised a hand, “You’re as fair as a woman. You’ve never seen a day’s training in the sun.”

Remus pressed the cloth to the line of blood. The boy didn’t even flinch, just kept the same lazy posture up, “A medic, I’d guess.”

“I’d sound a little more pleased about that if I were in your position right now.”

“I never said I wasn’t.” The boy leaned forward compliantly at Remus’ motion, and suddenly they were very close, almost chest to chest, as Remus reached around him to circle the make-shift bandage around his torso. When he spoke next, his voice was right in Remus’ ear, “Are we going to address the real question at any point?”

“Why I didn’t let you die?”

“No—“ The boy cut off with a hiss when Remus—maybe not so unintentionally—roughly tightened the bandage. He blew his hair from his eyes, narrowing them at Remus, “Why I couldn’t kill _you._ ”

Remus looked down, adjusting the bandage just so, staying quiet.

“You’re not a god. I can see that now, so there must be some explanation. Have you won one’s favor somehow?”

Remus’ fingers stilled. His mind flew to his own desperate words, the ones that had entered his mind in that split second of terror.

_Aphrodite, I call to you, I call to you, I don’t want to die._

_Aphrodite._

“You prayed.” Remus looked up, sitting back on his heels, “I caught you when you fell and I heard you.” Remus swore he saw the boy’s jaw tighten, “You prayed to Aphrodite for life. Why?”

Sirius pressed himself into a taller sitting position, wincing and trying to hide it, “It is in her clutches that I feel most alive.” It was said with a cheeky but obviously strained grin, “Nothing gets my heart pumping quite like she does, don’t you agree?”

Remus felt his cheeks flame.

The boy smirked, “Or maybe you don’t know. Medics wouldn’t be the ones getting much of the women down there at camp, would they?”

“You’re about to die and you pray for lust?” Remus shook his head, but his heart was racing.

Had they both prayed to Aphrodite? Had she heard them?

“You still didn’t answer my question.” The boy was picking gingerly at the new bandage, and pulling his tunic back over his head. Remus tried not to let his eyes linger as the tan strips of skin disappeared, “I struck with full intention to take you’re life. No godly work came from my side.”

Remus swallowed.

_Aphrodite, I call to you, I call to you, I don’t want to die._

“I don’t know.” He picked up his sword, edging it behind him now that the boy seemed in better fighting condition. His motion didn’t go unnoticed.

The boy’s smirk was back, “Scared I might try again?”

“You are a Trojan.” Remus said shortly, “Merciless.”

“Oh, is that what they say about us? How nice.” They stared at each other for a few moments, for long enough that Remus wondered if they were ever going to move.

“Here.” The boy said finally. He picked up his helmet and held it out. It gleamed in the sun, “I may be a merciless Trojan but I know when a debt needs to be payed. Take this for your spoils, I doubt you have many.”

Remus hesitated. He didn’t need a helmet, especially not a Trojan one. He didn’t want to be mistaken on the field, if he ever had to fight again. But, he supposed, if people started asking where he was, if anyone even noticed, it would be nice to have something to prove he had been there at all. Maybe even something that would offer the idea that he had taken a life. He took the helmet.

“You should trade it for food. Maybe become something other than skin and bones.”

Remus glared, “I’ll do with it what I like.”

They stood. Remus didn’t help him up this time but the boy didn’t seem to need it. He strapped his armor on with only a little difficulty, and then they were left with nothing to do but face each other.

“Do you often save enemy lives?”

Remus placed his own helmet on his head, and cradled the other beneath his arm, “I don’t often get close enough to an enemy to get the chance.” He took a step back, “You should clean that, when you get back.”

And then he turned and went.

~

Sand, Sirius thought. He would deal with the sand for that Greek.


	2. part ii

_The Greek Camp_

“Where did you get that?”

Remus ignored Peter’s question when he entered the tent, making a straight line to his cot and setting the helmet beneath it.

“Where have you been?"  
He ignored this one too.

“I thought you’d been killed!”

Remus sighed, stripping off his armor. His limbs felt like lead, “Well, I haven’t, as you can now see.” He flopped onto his bed, the one he hadn’t slept in for a few weeks now, “Just give me a second to breathe, alright?”

“It’s a spoil.”

Remus sat up on his elbows, surprised by the voice that came from beside Peter. Patroclus was crouched there, folding washed gauze into neat squares to be re-used. He looked up from his work at Remus, “Yes? You’ve killed and taken your prize.”

“I—“ Remus thought of grey eyes and sarcastic smiles, “Yes.”

Peter sat down with a huff, looking utterly defeated, “I didn’t get anyone.”

“I think the real point is that no one got you. Don’t pout, Petros.”

“Peter.” Peter said stonily, glancing at Patroclus, “I go by Peter.”

Patroclus tilted his head at him, “Why?”

Peter narrowed his eyes, “Would you like to be as round as I am and have your name mean ‘stone’?”

Patroclus suppressed a smile and looked down.

“Yeah, really funny.”

“I’m not laughing to be cruel. It is just that you seem very upset all the time. Whenever I am in here, tending to soldiers or, times like now—“

“Peter gets upset about most things.” Remus sighed, throwing the last of his armor aside and laying back. His heart was still racing.

Peter sighed, “It’s true.” He picked up a jug of water, taking a sip, “You know, we have to fight again tomorrow.”

Remus looked at him, startled, “What?”

Peter raised an eyebrow, “Don’t look so surprised. It’s not like we _gained_ men today.”

“I— I know.” Remus stared at the ceiling of the tent. He wouldn’t have an enemy soldier to drag off this time. He’d actually have to fight. The thought caused a whole new wave of panic to swell through his chest. He grabbed his pillow, swinging his legs off the bed and scooping the helmet under his arm, “I’ll be outside again, Pete.”

Peter just nodded, but Remus didn’t really want to stay in the tent anyway. He wasn’t sure there was much more standing between him asking Patroclus why Achilles was refusing to fight, really. It was dishonorable, it was causing more deaths on both sides, didn’t he _realize this_?

But most of all, it was fear. Remus didn’t want to fight. He didn’t want to die. And he felt like he had already been saved once. He sat down on his mat and held the helmet to face him, the empty eyes staring up at him. He touched his skin where the Trojan’s knife should have sliced it clean open.

“What is this?” His mouth barely moved, and he didn’t dare address the goddess out loud. _Aphrodite_ , “What has happened?”

The air was quiet, full of nothing but the sea breeze.

~

Sirius watched the servants bustle about his new chambers. He no longer would sleep with the other soldiers, given his new position, and instead was moved to a large room, completely his own. It had windows looking out over the sea, and he could see the glimmering fires of the Greeks. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, a constant reminder of war.

“They are pleasing, I hope.” Sirius turned to find the slave master, Kallias, who had be charged with overseeing Sirius’ move. He was standing primly, motioning to a collection of slave girls holding an array of richly colored tunics and jewelry, “Gifts from his majesty Priam and Hector.”

Sirius was glad he could easily concur that he was referring to the clothing and jewels, and not the girls. He smiled, “Very appreciated, yes. The rooms, too.”

“Very well.” He motioned to the girls to put the clothing in the dressing rooms, then turned to Sirius, “Unless…you’d prefer one of them stay, of course. Or perhaps I could fetch one of the boys.”

Sirius turned away, looking again to the fires in the distance, “Not tonight, no.”

Sirius remained still until the door shut, then, turning around to check that it was closed, rid himself of his sandals and sword, anything that was heavy or might hinder a climb, and climbed nimbly atop the open window sill, looking down. The breeze lifted his hair. He wasn’t high, or that high, and the stones of the palace would make for good footholds. It was stupid, really, and he’d probably end up waiting alone for hours only to be tired in battle tomorrow. But he swung his legs over the wall anyway, thoughts only of a certain tree and a certain Greek.

He’d achieved status. he’d achieved rank and money and he felt the change in the way people looked at him, spoke to him, when he entered the room. He began to be the first served at dinner and the first voice Hector looked to for guidance. He felt godlike, almost, all day. Until he came back to his room, and he was alone again. He didn’t want a servant’s compliant company. He wanted bite and grit and someone to talk to him through the money and the status. 

And he wanted answers, maybe most of all. The stone wall was rough on the skin of his feet, and he thought he might call for a warm bath and oil later, if this didn’t pan out. He suddenly wished he had brought his sword along, or maybe a small knife, just to test the theory, to see if the blade, again, would simply skimp off of the boy’s skin. Not that that would inspire any form of companionship, especially not the kind Sirius was after. James, for he had had to tell James, had made a large deal out of the boy’s _Greekness_. But Sirius didn’t particularly care. This wasn’t his war he was fighting in. He was here because his father had sent him, all those years ago, to train and no one said no to his father. He was here because he had fallen into one sided love with this war’s father, this war’s prince. And Paris would never love him. Paris barely looked at him, he was probably the one person in the palace who’s demeanor hadn’t changed with Sirius’ promotion.

So, Sirius climbed down the palace like an escaping fugitive. And, really, maybe that’s what he was. A very rich one. The sand was soft and still warm from the setting sun when he landed, feet firm and planted in a fighting stance. He’d have to go around the long way, away from the fighting field, keeping in the olive groves. He, again, felt stupid for leaving behind his sword. If he met any Greeks, he’d have to fight fist to blade. Not that he couldn’t, but it wasn’t ideal. He took off at a gentle run, feet light and slipping against the grassy sand, ignoring the pull in his side. The sea breeze got stronger as he approached the olive trees, crouched low and soundless. It felt good against his skin, a pleasant contrast to the throb in his side. Maybe that could be an excuse—

There was the sudden chatter of voices and Sirius dropped next to a tree, steadying himself against the bark. Two Greeks on patrol, talking far too noisily to be expecting to actually catch anyone. Sirius waited silently as them and their twin torches faded away.

An excuse, he had been thinking, to get a little closer. A change in bandages, perhaps. He’d even offer to let the boy rip his shirt again, now that he had so many finer ones waiting for him. He was stepped carefully into the clearing, familiar even under the cloak of darkness, and pushed aside some branches only to freeze.

The boy stood there, frozen too. Sirius was unable to stop the smirk from crossing his face.

“Interesting.”

The boy seemed unable to stop the scowl from crossing his, “What are you doing here?”

Sirius stepped further into the grove, smile growing at the way the boy too a step back, “What are _you_ doing here?”

The boy gestured downward and Sirius looked to see his helmet there, settled between two thick roots in the sand, “Returning this. I don’t know what to do with it.”

Sirius crossed to the boy in two long strides, ignoring the way he stiffened, and looked down at the metal crown with its blooming crest, “I thought I told you to trade it for food.”

The boy scoffed, “It doesn’t work like that at an army camp. This isn’t an agora, there are rations. Otherwise men would be selling their share for drink.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow and sat down in the sand, leaning back against the tree, “They don’t do that already?” He looked up at the boy, at the moonlight coming through the olive leaves dappled across his skin. He really was very fair and, in this light, Sirius could see the faint sheen of thin lines of scar tissue that littered his face and shoulders, his arms and hands, really anywhere his thin, dirty tunic didn’t cover. Sirius felt an odd sort of sinking in his stomach.

The boy, much to Sirius’ surprise, sank down to the sand as well, a good number of inches between them. He nodded towards Sirius’ side, the outline of the bandage visible beneath, ignoring the question, “Did you have the palace look at it?”

Sirius grinned, “I was hoping you’d ask. I didn’t. Why, do you care to?”

The boy's eyes widened a little, maybe at Sirius’ tone, and a flush covered his cheeks, visible even in the dimness.

“I was only asking. It’s a deep cut.”

Sirius hummed, “Yes, it is. Probably not one that was helped by me scaling a wall.”

“Scaling a _what_?”

“Well, I couldn’t just waltz out of the palace and down to your camp, could I?”

The boy stayed quiet, studying Sirius like he was a foreign sort of food that he wasn’t sure he was keen on eating or not. Sirius smiled back and took the opportunity to admire the boy’s eyes. They were like the gold he currently had circled around his biceps, and he reached up to feel the cool metal, watching the golden-bronze eyes follow the motion, then flick back.

“You’ll be fighting tomorrow?” Sirius asked, and the boy didn’t respond. Sirius continued, taking it as a yes, “Do you think all blades can’t touch you or just mine?”

Again, the boy remained silent. Sirius ducked his head a little, trying to catch the boy’s eye, “Are you going to answer any of my questions? What if we start with something simpler. A name, maybe.” Sirius felt heat along his skin at the prospect of knowing the golden, silent boy’s name, “Mine is Sirius. Son of Orion, house of Black.”

The boy looked up then, “I don’t know it.”

“I didn’t say you should.” Sirius raised an eyebrow, prompting.

The boy pressed his lips together, and spoke with his eyes cast down again, “Remus. Son of Lyall. House of Lupin.”

Sirius sat a little straighter, “House of Lupin.” The name was familiar, it would have been familiar no matter what land one was in, “I know your family. You are the high priests of Apollo, you’re healers. You’ve saved millions, your father saved my own brother. Regulus, the plague of Artemis, last year.”

A strange sort of smile crossed Remus’ face, and his long fingers reached up, subconsciously tracing one of the thicker scars on his neck, “Yes.” Was all he said.

Sirius, feeling the wall that Remus had already built between them growing higher, worked quickly to keep him talking.

“Could that be…” He wet his lips, “Apollo, could he be protecting you?”

Remus, eyes still on the sand, shook his head, “No. Not now. I am not with the priesthood anymore.” Feeling Sirius’ eyes on him he looked up, just for a moment, “I left.” His fingers were still rubbing at his scars, now at a shining one that ran the length of his forearm.

“You left? Permanently, you mean?” Sirius, trying to ignore the throbbing in his side, attempted to subtly press his fingers to it, “Does that not hinder you in your occupation as a healer?” His last word was part hiss as his palm did nothing to ease the ache.

Remus’ eyes flicked up instantly, “You’re bleeding again.” He let out a small sigh, and produced from a small sack tied to the rope around the waist of his tunic gauze and a few various vials, “You must let me see.”

Sirius, feeling suddenly rather light-headed, just nodded in consent and leaned his head back against the tree. Cool hands lifted his fine linens from his skin for a second time, and he sat there, bare in the sand, as Remus laid out his supplies.

“Do you have that because you knew I’d be here?” Sirius liked that idea.

Remus was carefully pealing away the soiled bit of tunic that was currently acting as a make-shift bandage, “I have it because this is what I do all day. This is war, you think we always have time to get people to the medicine tent?”

Sirius, liking that idea a bit less, remained silent, letting his eyes close until he felt something being pressed against his lips.

He opened them to find the hazel eyes very close indeed, “For the pain.”

Sirius, forgetting to be wary of an enemy’s food offering, opened his lips and let Remus place the small blossom on his tongue.

While Sirius’ heart sped at the taste of the salt on Remus’ fingers, Remus was already looking back down to his work, “It will take a few moments.” Then, a few beats later, “You still do not need stitches, but I would not climb any more walls.”

“I have to get home some how.”

Remus opened the largest of the vials and sprinkled oil onto a piece of gauze, making it pliable and adhesive to Sirius’ skin. He repeated the action a few more times until the knife wound was completely covered. Then, from a smaller bottle, Remus dabbed honey onto the edges of the bandage, smearing it along Sirius’ skin to keep the protection in place.

“I see the lack of Apollo’s favor has not hurt you.”

“A god’s favor is not everything.” Remus sat back on his heels, using the sand to scrape the honey and oil from his hands, “Sometimes its better they don’t notice you at all.”

Sirius, again, looked at the scars, “A god has wronged you?” Sirius knew the myths of the strings of lovers that Apollo in particular was famous for taking. Girls and boys, Daphne and Hyacinthus. His stomach tightened, heart picking up, “Or you have wronged a god.”

Remus looked at him stonily, “Are you afraid of me now?”

Sirius tilted his head a little to the side. If anything, the only new feeling he was experiencing was a strange hint of protectiveness over this scarred boy, “I didn’t say that. I don’t believe either of those things.”

Remus placed the vials he had brought carefully into the bag at his waist, “No?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“If you were at war with a god, why would they protect you?”

Remus handed Sirius his tunic, eyes cast away, “You can fall out with one person and in with another, can’t you?”

Sirius pulled it over his head slowly, just to give himself time to respond. Who was this boy who dealt with gods? Why would he not speak of it?

“Aphrodite.” Sirius suddenly recalled, re-tying his tunic at his waist, “You asked me about Aphrodite.”

Still, no eye contact, “Because you prayed to her.”

“Out of love for life, not out of any favor.” Sirius sat forward, “Aphrodite does not favor my family, we have sworn fidelity to Hera, to purity and tradition. Aphrodite wants none of those things.”

“I don’t _know_ —“

Sirius sat back at the bite in Remus, tone, blinking.

Remus finally looked at him, “I know that’s what you’re getting at. The knife.”

Sirius laughed, a little disbelieving, “Don’t you want to know?”

“I—“ Remus sighed, “You prayed to Aphrodite.”

“I already told you—“

“And I prayed to Aphrodite.”

Sirius blinked, swallowing, “Oh.”

“That’s it. That’s all I know. I saw you’re knife coming and I prayed to her for life.” When he looked at Sirius, his eyes were moonlight turned the color of the sun, “I don’t know why she listened. I don’t.”

Sirius took a breath, “And… And then…”

Remus nodded, “Then she listened again. With you. Do you think its ever day one enemy helps another?”

Sirius went to speak when the wind picked up, blowing with enough force to tumble Sirius’ heavy helmet in between them right into Remus’ knees. Then the night was as it had been, still. The two boys stared at Sirius’ armor, glinting the stars back at them.

“Aphrodite.” Sirius said quietly, “Goddess of love.”

Remus was standing suddenly and it made Sirius jump up too. He felt like he should say something, or maybe Remus should say something, but they just stood there, looking at each other.

Finally, Remus, with his thumb pressed to the same scar on his forearm, spoke through a tight jaw, “I don’t deal with the gods. Not anymore.”

Sirius, at a loss, shook his head a little, “I’m not a god.”

Remus shook his head, kicking the helmet away. It rolled at Sirius’ feet, “You might as well be.”

Sirius stepped over the helmet, “I—“ He put his hands up when Remus took a step back, “I think you survived for a reason. I think _I_ survived for a reason.”

“Manipulation.” Remus bit back, “That’s all.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes, “Then why did you come back here? Who _manipulated_ you to this place again? To me again?” Sirius pointed at the helmet, “This is a sign, we are experiencing something god given. You came back because something _pulled_ you back, just like me.”

Remus took another step away, “I already told you—“

“I don’t believe that.” Sirius took another step forward, “Not for a moment.”

“I didn’t ask you too.” Remus’ fists were clenched at his sides.

“Why,” Sirius didn’t miss a beat, not letting Remus get another step away, “can’t this be an omen? A good one?” The words sounded desperate, and far-fetched, but it was true. Sirius felt the tug in his chest. He felt it in his heart, in some deep space at the base of his soul, like strings on a loom that led straight to—

“Because this is a _god’s_ work, and this is _war_.” Remus’ chest heaved, nails digging into his skin, into the scars that laced themselves even across his palms.

Sirius, again, watched Remus storm away, disappearing into the night, his words ringing in the still air.

“No one is on our side.”


End file.
